Lord of the Manor -- Section 7

[This weekend was a challenge, emotionally and literarilly. I made mistakes in my submissions of Fat Tony, I think, but they're on their way, so I have to trust that what is right will happen, in spite of my mistakes.

[Also, I realized (after much languishing in despair) that I needed to better understand the relationship between a demon and his master before I could go on. I'm pleased to say, I now understand better. Huzzah! This work-in-progress can now a little less work and a little more progress.

[As a final note, I have a deal to offer: I'd be willing to trade a free copy of Fat Tony (as soon as we Lulu it) in exchange for someone maintaining a list of characters as I write Lord of the Manor. When you meet a new character, you put his or her name in a list, and include any descriptions I give of that character. Then I could use this as reference, and you could have a free book. Or two free books, when City of Dreams is Lulu ready. Whatever you think is fair.

[Let me know, if anyone is interested!]

            Michael hadn't intended to fall asleep. He'd tried to read--Shakespeare after talking with Silver and Sticks? Not likely--and he'd tried playing DEMONS IN THE GARDEN on his laptop, but that had struck a little too close to home. Instead he ended up blowing up about twenty mines before he gave up trying to win MINESWEEPER on expert, put his head down on his bed and closed his eyes. Just to rest them a little. Not to go to sleep.

            It seemed like he'd barely put his head down when something tugged on his sleeve. He lifted his face off the wet spot on the blanket and wiped at his cheek. His eyes wandered around until he found Sticks' lizard-like eyes staring right back at him.

            "Am I interrupting something?" asked the demon, smiling, but his face looked tense.

            "What are you doing here?" asked Michael. "Time for me to go home?" He started to dig in his pocket for his cell phone, stopped, and pushed the space button on his laptop. Not even eight yet--wait, that said PM. It was eight at NIGHT. "You told me not to go out in the dark. Why are you waking me up now?"

            "That's an interesting question," said Sticks, walking over to Michael's cloth suitcase and toying with a zipper. His shirt now said WARLOCKS ARE FOR IMPS. "I've been asked to get your help."

            Michael sat up and started pulling off his socks--he hated sleeping with them on. "Help with what?"

            "You might want to keep those on."

            "My socks?"

            "Yes."

            "Why?"

            "We need to go outside."

            "The thing you told me not to do?"

            "Yes, exactly. You are a very good listener."

            Michael stopped with one sock on and one sock half-way off. "Are you making fun of me?"

            Sticks stopped playing with the zipper. "No. I'm not. Sorry, I'm just asking you to do something that's kind of stupid, and definitely dangerous, and might have consequences that you--forget it. Too complicated." He turned and looked up at Michael, head on. "Here's the straight version: the pizza girl is back."

            Michael's eyes flicked to the hallway. "At the door?"

            "Not yet, though if she makes it that far, I suggest you let her in."

            "If she makes it that far?"

            "Exactly. She's on the grounds, at night, and humans during the day are just fine, because there aren't many lesser demons of the Air awake then. For example, when you came."

            "I didn't see any demons out there," said Michael.

            "Again, exactly. You're five or ten times bigger than they are. They're not going to mess with you, one-on-one."

            "But there are more at night?"

            "Lots more."

            Michael swallowed. "How many more?"

            "Lots and lots."

            "Lesser demons of the Air don't sound too bad," said Michael, trying to hold onto some small illusion that things around this mansion were normal, or at least safe. Or maybe not safe, but at least not life-threatening.

            "I once saw them devour an entire pig," said Sticks. "Some of the bones were left over, but not many. Also, I could show you a scar, but it's...." He gestured toward his bottom half on the back side.

            "Okay," said Michael. "Right. They're not nice, and Maddie's out there. What do I do?"

            Sticks wrinkled up his face. "I'm afraid that the best thing you've got going for you is your size."

            "My size? But Maddie is bigger than I am."

            "True, but you'll also be armed."

            "With what?"

            "With whatever we can find. Does Silver still have those oversized trays around? Bring a few of those."

            "You're telling me to take on demons with a pair of fancy platters?"

            "Also, a broom, if we can find one. Better to not let them get close enough for the trays."

            Michael felt the pizza he'd eaten flopping around in his stomach. "Are you trying to scare me or encourage me?"

            "Both sound smart," said Sticks. "Look, we go out there, we get Maddie in the manor house, and in the morning you both go away, no one worse for wear."

            "Unless we get eaten before we get back."

            "Look, young Master. There are a few other things we could try, but not if you want to walk away from this place tomorrow. The moment you start bestowing Rights and Privileges, this place is well and truly yours. Until you die. And there's no guarantee even then that it would do any good against demons of the Air. You're an Arches. Earth demons are your area of specialty."

            "They are?" asked Michael.

            "Yes," said Sticks, "they are. Of course, that's plenty, since most demons, minor demons, and imps are of the Earth and Deep Earth. You're one of the big guns, young Master."

            "Great," said Michael, licking at lips that were suddenly dry. "Except that you don't want me to use those guns."

            Sticks rubbed his hands down over his face. "You're right. Better safe than sorry. Look, you bring me along in...this backpack. We'll dump all the stuff out, I'll ride, and if things get really bad--really, REALLY bad--you give me the Right of Personal Protection and Overwatch for the Lord of the Manor."

            Michael blinked. "What does that mean?"

            "It means I become your bodyguard."

            "But," the boy looked down at the two-foot tall, shoeless demon, "you're kind of..."

            "Small?" the demon finished for him, then Sticks smiled. "You sure you're one to talk?"

            Michael felt himself blush. "I didn't mean--"

            "No, I understand. But you have to keep in mind that the Right of Personal Protection and Overwatch comes with some decent clout. Without it, well, I'm just another guy you know who works for a guy you don't. But with it, I become two feet of tentacled terror. Without the tentacles."

            "So you've done this before?"

            "Done what?"

            "The bodyguard thing."

            "Oh. Um, not exactly."

            "What do you mean?"

            "No."

            "No, what?"

            "No, I haven't done the bodyguard thing before. I've always had slightly...odd jobs. That's just how the old Master and my boss worked things out. But I've HEARD about the Right of Personal Protection and Overwatch, and it's pretty cool. From what I've heard."

            Michael looked down at the sock that was still half-way off his foot. "So, what you're saying is, you have no idea what you're doing."

            Sticks gave the zipper one last flick and sighed. "None at all. But if we don't go out there--"

            "I get it," said Michael. "Maddie seems nice, and nobody deserves to be eaten like that pig."

            "Not even the pig," said Sticks.

            "Sure," said Michael, and he pulled his sock back on.

            Tickertape stared out the window. Night was falling for real, burying the manor grounds in the darkness that invited demons out to play, to frolic, and then to be eaten by unseen attackers. The small quirk shivered. He'd had friends run out into that night, hoping to find food somewhere out there. None of them had come back. Tickertape hoped they'd found a better place.

            "Mr. Tape?" came a voice.

            The quirk looked down from the window ledge where he was sitting. Walk was looking up at him, his scaled head reflecting some light from the quarter-moon outside.

            "Just Tickertape is fine," said the quirk, feeling odd to have a demon address him that way, even a minor one. "Can't sleep?"

            Walk shook his head. "It's still early. I mean, I'm exhausted, but it's like I'm too tired to sleep. Does that happen?"

            "Sure," said Tickertape, looking out the window. "All the time. Anything I can do for you?"

            "I don't know. I don't understand what's going on. I feel like a tumble without a message to deliver. No matter where I run, it won't make a difference. I'll still feel lost."

            Tickertape laughed quietly. "Yeah. I know that feeling."

            "Really? I thought it would be different for you. I mean, you're a quirk. You have your Job and Responsibility, right?"

            The quirk reached out his hand and tapped the glass in front of him, an absent, wandering kind of drumming. "Had. I had a Job and Responsibility." He looked down at the demon. Walk's eyes were wide with shock.

            "Did the old Master take them away? That's terrible!"

            "No! Oh, no, sorry. I didn't mean to give that impression. No, the old Master didn't take them away. He was a very kind man. He wouldn't do that to anyone."

            The lesser demon's face was scrunched around his eyes, confused. "Then what's the matter? Why don't you have your Job anymore?"

            Tickertape flexed his fingers. "It's like the Job is...fading. Like it's slipping out of my fingers. Rope Feast blamed me for his armor, and I didn't want to believe it, but the more I think about it, the more I think he might be right...." His voice trailed away, fading like the ability he felt leaving his fingers, more and more each day.

            "Armor?" asked Walk.

            The quirk shook his head. "Forget it. Thing is, my Job and Responsibility came from the old Master. He's gone, and we don't have a new one, yet. Until the new Master gives me a Job, I expect my old one will keep dripping away, drop after drop."

            "Like the juice in a lag," muttered Walk, looking disturbed. Disturbed and crestfallen. Tickertape decided it was time to put some hope back into this conversation.

            "Exactly," he said. "And every hour, lags flip over, right? A new hour replaces the old one. Things fade, but new things take their place. We just have to find the new thing. We'll get a new Master. Give it time."

            Walk nodded. "Do you think the new Master would help--I know it's crazy to ask, but do you think he'd--even though it was in the Great Hall, the new Master MUST know how to--"

            "To save your friend?"

            Walk nodded again.

            "I expect he'll do whatever he can. The old Master was a good man. One of the best, from everything I've heard. He wouldn't leave us with a bad Master. And besides, maybe we can even do something about your friend."

            Walk's eyes were wide. "Are you serious? Have you BEEN there?"

            "No, but I've been here. Things may be bad, but there are still good demons around, all over. You met me, didn't you? And I'm a GREAT imp. One of the nicest." Tickertape smiled bigger than the smile he felt inside, but it seemed to be enough. The minor demon smiled back.

            Then they both jumped as something hit into the glass of the window and clung there. Too close for Tickertape's comfort, a lesser demon of the Air looked at him through wide eyes that seemed to flash from deep inside. The winged, man-like thing gave a sharp-toothed smile, rapped on the glass with a closed fist, then flitted away on moth wings.

            "That...was creepy," said Tickertape, his entire chest thumping with his heartbeat.

            "Yeah," said Walk, sitting on his backside where he'd fallen. "That's why we went through the Great Hall."

            "An understandable decision," said the quirk, staring out the window. Then he leaned closer. "Seems like there's a lot of them out there. More than I've seen before."

            "What's happening?" asked Walk.

            "I can't tell. Too dark--hang on." Off to the east, a rectangle of yellow spread across the lawn in a sweep, a door opening to spill its light onto the grounds. Then it was gone again.

            "Can you see anything?" Walk was shoving a small footstool over to the window to get his own view.

            "Looks like someone's out there," said Tickertape. "And he's got...a tray."